


Heart-Line

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Hobbit ABCs [8]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fortune Telling, M/M, alphabet prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 16:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Bofur who told Bilbo about Oin's ability to read palms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart-Line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejerseydevile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseydevile/gifts).



The first several weeks on the road were utter misery for Bilbo, as he discovered that adventures sometimes took a long time to get started and also might come with day after day of rain and sore thighs and a tender bum and sleeping on a blanket that did nothing to stop twigs and stones from poking every sensitive spot on his poor body.

His first month of traveling came to an end, however, with thighs and bum that were slowly adjusting to his pony’s stride, and bright, sunny skies, and the slow realization that he was making a friend. Bilbo had always been a bit awkward in new situations, not particularly outgoing and dependent on people coming to him. The dwarves were loud and strange, but fully capable of paying him little to no mind for hours at a time. All save one.

Bofur was, in some ways, the loudest and strangest of the lot, but he was also the first to pull his pony alongside Bilbo’s and start telling him about everyone in their little Company.

“The lads, now, you’ll have realized they’re Thorin’s nephews. He’s no children of his own, so Fíli’s his heir and Kíli’s the spare. They’re a bit of trouble when they like to be, but you’ll not find a mean bone in their bodies.” 

He went on, telling Bilbo about the happily squabbling Ris, as Bofur tended to call them, his own Urs, a bit about Balin and Dwalin – “I’m from the mines, don’t know all these high society types so well yet” – and little about Thorin, beyond that Thorin had made them a safe and happy home in Ered Luin before asking for volunteers to go on this insane quest. His comments were kindly stated and laced with humor in a way that made Bilbo smile despite the new pain popping up in his lower back.

“And that,” Bofur ended on the first day, “is Oin. He’s a healer – one of the best, works for the royal family – but he also reads portents.” He grinned, sunny and cheerful despite the strange distance set by his mustache. “He can even read palms.”

“Read palms?” Bilbo asked, confused. 

“Aye.” Bofur held one of his own hands up, though it was mostly covered in knitted wool. The weather still felt warm and pleasant to Bilbo, but his companions dressed as though it was the middle of the winter. It was Bofur who told him that layers are easier to wear than to pack, and temperature didn’t bother dwarves overmuch anyway. “Oin can look at your palm, and read the lines on it, and tell you a bit about your future.”

Bilbo laughed. “No one can tell the future, Bofur!” he chided, “Not even old Widow Bobble, who claims she can read the tea leaves in the bottom of your cup and lead you to the love of your life!”

“Oh? She was always wrong then?”

Bilbo blinked. “Well…well no.” Actually, the Widow was usually right. Many a young person came to her during the harvest celebration with the dregs of tea leaves in a cup, only to end up marrying the very person she pointed out at the next festival. “But she just knows people, it has nothing to do with fortune-telling.”

Bofur tsked. “Well, don’t let Oin here you saying that, it’ll hurt his feelings. He’s the one who read the portents that said we needed to get our collective asses in gear and strike out for Erebor.” 

Ahead of them, Bifur called something in the ancient language he preferred, and Bofur excused himself with a click to his pony, the placid mining beast trotting ahead to meet her brother. 

“Fortune telling,” Bilbo chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “No one over the age of 35 believes in that sort of silliness.”

\----

Oin cornered Bilbo in Rivendell.

In all fairness, and Bilbo did always try to be fair, cornered was probably too harsh a word. He’d been wandering the halls as he often did, taking in the architecture and enjoying the quiet, when Oin’s voice boomed a friendly hello from behind him.

It was strange to see one of the dwarves away from their own wing, wandering free down the hallways, and odder still that Oin was alone and not in the company of his brother, Gloin. But he looked cheerful enough, clean and well-groomed again after weeks on the road, and his smile was genuine.

“Good eve, Oin,” Bilbo answered, pitching his voice a bit louder in deference to the other’s hearing. “What brings you here?”

“Why you, lad!” Oin bellowed cheerfully. Oin was usually quite serious – Bilbo rarely saw him this upbeat. “Why else would I be wandering these squirrelly halls?” He slapped Bilbo on the back, an unfortunate dwarvish habit that used to nearly send the Hobbit nose-first to the ground, but Bofur’s daily show of friendly affection had taught Bilbo how to set his feet and prepare for it. “I’d like to have a reading with you.”

“A reading?” Bilbo asked, a bit breathlessly, because Oin hit lower than Bofur did.

“Aye. It’s a good night for it. I’ve already done most of the others, and I thought I’d do yours.” Oin beamed like a kindly, if somewhat grumpy, uncle. “Now you won’t be turning me down, will ye lad? Everyone likes a peek into their lives.”

Bilbo didn’t have the heart to say no, and so found himself moments later sitting on one of the balconies, the moon shining down on them. “Which is your dominant hand?” Oin asked.

“Ah, the right.”

Oin considered this a moment before reaching for the left. “I think for you, a more personal analysis.” 

Bilbo’s hand was practically engulfed in Oin’s. 

He’d never felt particularly small before joining a company of dwarves.

Oin pulled out an eyepiece and leaned forward, carefully studying Bilbo’s palm. 

“What are you looking for?”

“Lines,” Oin answered perfunctorily. “Life line, heart line, head line. Those will tell us about you, and perhaps about your future. For example, your life line tells me that you take things too seriously.” He traced a broad fingertip across Bilbo’s palm. “You need someone in your life to remind you to stop and relax from time to time. Someone with a sense of humor.”

Bilbo shook his head with a wry smile, glad Oin was too engrossed to see. 

“And your head line, it tells me you’re a creative thinker. You can see many outcomes to a situation. You’ll need someone who appreciates that, and is willing to follow you on your madder schemes.”

Bilbo actually laughed. “No one’s accused me of mad schemes since I was a boy! I think you’ve confused me with another Hobbit.”

Oin looked up, his eye magnified behind the lens. “Oh?” he asked, humor in his voice. “And this doesn’t count as a mad scheme? Following us to fight a dragon?”

Bilbo felt his nose twitch with embarrassment. “Well, there is that.” He cleared his throat. “I thought this was about me. You’re acting like it’s a matchmaking service. I need someone who.”

Oin made a sort of burf noise, lowering his gaze again. “You’ve a romantic palm. That means you’ve recently met the one for you.”

Bilbo chuckled. “I’m a lifelong bachelor, Oin. Ask anyone in the Shire.”

“Don’t need to ask anyone. It’s here in your heart-line.” He cleared his throat twice before he said, in a somewhat mystical tone, “Your heart-line shows you prefer small groups to large. You need someone who is cheerful and outgoing, but willing to share space with only you. An honest person. Straightforward. You need . . .” his voice trailed off.

“Oin?”

“I’ve….” Oin didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’ve seen this exact heart line before. Recently. Just…” he harrumphed again and let go of Bilbo’s hands. “Just minutes ago. What are the odds…” He shook his head and stood. 

“Oin?” Bilbo asked, but Oin was already walking away, mumbling loudly to himself. It wasn’t exactly difficult to hear what he was saying-

“Should I tell Bofur?” Oin mumbled. “A hobbit and a dwarf. Who knew?”

Bilbo blinked.

“Bofur?” he asked the air, and looked down at his once again nondescript palm.

\----

It was about a year later, at a wedding thick with the scent of flowers but under the arc of stone, that Oin confessed.

He was, perhaps, a bit deep in his cups, and Bofur (practically glowing with happiness) was dancing with his sister Bombi, when Oin plopped himself next to Bilbo and said, “Ah, it paid off then.”

“Paid off?” Bilbo inquired politely, though his feet were itching to go out and steal his new husband away and dance with him himself. Let a Hobbit show these stomping dwarves how to dance! And Bofur wasn’t at all above climbing on a table to keep Bilbo’s feet clear of all those heavy boots. _Someone with a sense of humor,_ he thought fondly, _who will follow you into your mad schemes._

“Aye!” Oin saluted him with his mug. Bofur and Bilbo’s wedding was the first in the retaken mountain, and the party seemed to only get bigger, happier, and noisier with each passing moment. “Back in Rivendell, when Bofur paid me to hint you two were made for each other!” He beamed. “Always knew you were a bright lad!”

Bilbo stared.

He blinked.

His nose twitched.

It might have been a scheme, but Oin had been right about all but one thing.

Bilbo took a proper deep breath and yelled:

“BOFUR SON OF KEFUR YOU GET UP HERE RIGHT NOW!”

 _Honest indeed_ , Bilbo though, and laughed at the look of shock on his underhanded dwarf’s handsome face.


End file.
